by Darian Smith
“All you need?” Brannon said. Tomidan was burrowed into his mother’s side like a limpet. “Then why were you bleeding one of the royal line when we walked in here?”
“For this.” Draeson held up his arm and the dragon tattoo shifted, twining itself around his wrist like a snake. “Part of my power comes from a creature from another dimension. We have a bond, it and I. But not quite enough.” He lowered his arm again and traced the fingers of his other hand over the tattoo. A gentle smile played on his lips. “We share our power with each other, but for the dragon to keep its foothold in this world, it needs to access my bond to the royal bloodline. It needs royal blood.”
Brannon felt the chill over his body again, but this time it was the mage’s words that brought it, not his power. “You feed the dragon. You let it bite someone of royal blood so that it can live with you forever, the way you do.”
Latricia, her chin resting on the crown of Tommy’s head, spoke softly. “The royal family have had a deal with Magus Draeson for generations. Keldan kept him supplied with blood for the dragon. I read about it in his journals.”
“The bite marks on Keldan’s body,” Brannon said. He pulled a chair from under the writing desk and sat down on it. “Of course.”
“Don’t you see?” Draeson said. “It’s a good deal. The blood required for the dragon is only a little bit. It’s not dangerous. And my loyalty is absolute, so the power it grants me is an asset for the kingdom. I will always act in the best interests of Kalanon because if the king and his family fall, so do I.”
“Aldan knows?” Brannon closed his eyes. He could remember the king’s voice the first day this nightmare of a case had begun. “You’ll be paid what’s owing,” he’d told Draeson that day.
“Of course he knows.”
The sad thing was, he couldn’t even be surprised. His friend was a very practical king and Draeson was right about it being a good deal for the kingdom. Just, at this moment, it didn’t seem like a good deal for the little boy who was the only member of the royal bloodline nearby.
“Tommy knows what he’s doing,” Latricia said, as though reading his mind. “I told him it would be okay.”
The boy turned to look at Brannon. “The wizard will keep us safe from the bad man,” he said.
“Mage,” Draeson corrected, absently.
“I’m sure he will,” Brannon told the boy. “He’ll have to be very responsible, won’t he?”
“Subtle,” said Draeson.
“Don’t push it. I take it you’ve done enough? Has the dragon got what it needed to get?”
“Yes.”
“Then get out, Draeson. Leave them alone unless you’re actually needed to keep them safe.”
“Fine.” The mage stood and moved toward the door.
Brannon, suddenly uncertain what he could say when left in a room with Latricia and her son, stood as well.
“Stay safe,” breathed Mayor Shillia, her face a little paler than usual. She followed them out and shut the door behind them.
The hallway seemed dark and filled with shadow.
“Brannon,” said Draeson, his voice pitched low. “There’s something else.”
Brannon swore under his breath and shut his eyes. When he opened them, the mage was still there. “What?”
“I make it a habit to keep track of members of the royal bloodline. Even the lesser ones. I’ve developed a spell for identifying anyone with even a little of it in them.”
“And?” Even as he said it, Brannon remembered Draeson muttering over the corpse of Caidin Ray in the courtyard. Remembered the blood glowing with light as a result. “Blood and Tears.”
“All but Kholi Gruul had royal blood in them. Roydan’s family are known for throwing bastards. The stable boy was one. The seamstress was carrying one.” He paused, as if weighing the value of his next words. “Brannon, I think someone is going after the royal family.”
Chapter Thirty-three
The change from deep sleep to wakefulness was sudden and sharp, like a knife thrust. Brannon’s eyes opened and he felt the tension thrumming through him, his body charged like the air before a thunderstorm. He recognized it at once. This was waking in the battlefield. This was the warning from his deepest subconscious that something was not right. Something had happened while he was asleep—a sound or movement that ought not to be there. The part of him that stood guard even while sleeping, the soldier that could never feel safe enough to rest, had heard it and sounded the alarm.
He lay still, eyes and ears straining. Lamplight, oozing up from the armed men outside, turned the closed curtains into a shadow theater of tree branches and shifting shapes. None of them were a threat. The room around him was empty of people. The furniture, more ornate than he needed, stood in reserve, its prettiness lost in dark. Whatever it was that had woken him must have come from beyond.
He slipped silently from beneath the covers, pausing only to sling his sword belt around his waist over the loose, flowing pants he wore to bed. There was no clock in the room, but it had the feel of early hours of the morning—past midnight, but little more. Nothing stirred. He walked to the door, barefoot and bare chested, opened it slowly, and stepped out into the hall, moving as silently as a scout in enemy territory.
The air was chilled, raising a ripple of gooseflesh along his skin. The ward-dogs eyed him warily, their wolf-like eyes glowing with a soft, baleful light; in the empty hallway, with no lamps lit or guests awake, they took on an unnerving quality. The corridor seemed like a tunnel, leading the way through the realm of the Hooded One.
A low creaking noise came from the direction of the stairs and Brannon moved toward it. The glowing dog eyes followed his path.
As he came closer, the creak sounded again. One of the room doors was ajar. It shifted ever so slightly in a draft, pulling a low protest from the hinges, like an old horse made to plow.
He nudged it open.
The room inside was empty, but for a four-poster bed and dresser. It was smaller than his own room. Moonlight spilled in through the window that was also slightly ajar. The curtains were open and billowed in the breeze like languishing ghosts.
Brannon let out his breath and scratched at the scar on his cheek. He’d thought himself beyond waking in the middle of the night for a creaky door and an open window. Perhaps this case was getting to him even more than he thought.
He moved swiftly through the empty room and pulled down on the window. It closed with a satisfying thud. He rested his hands on the windowsill and peered out into the yard below. Roydan’s militia still kept guard in both directions—toward and away from the inn. He was no closer to the meaning of that than before.
He ran his hand along the sill, the feel of something solid a kind of antidote to the ungraspable ideas and clues floating in his mind. Somewhere out there was likely a Risen, created by murder and for the intention of murder. Their main suspect was dead. His friend’s soldiers were behaving oddly and his investigative partner spent more time looking for bedmates or blood for his dragon tattoo than solving the case. The Nilarians may or may not have been involved and either way the ambassador was a distraction. Keldan’s widow was hiding something and Ula, who was his best source of information on the rituals used in the murders, was also a potential lightning rod for the fears of the townsfolk. And now it seemed the whole thing might be targeted at those related to the royal family. Add to that a king waiting in Alapra for conclusive proof of guilt and a reason not to go back to war, and it was small wonder Brannon found it difficult to sleep.
Still, there was little chance of it making sense in the morning if he didn’t at least try to rest. He moved to turn away from the window, when a detail caught his attention.
The windowsill was bare.
“Ula’s protection pouch.” He checked the floor, it wasn’t there. There was no sign of one in any of the corners of the room and none near the window. Ula had been insistent—at least one pouch needed to be in every room and extras in strat
egic corners of the building to afford it the protection of her earth spirits against the kaluki inside a Risen. Where was it now?
“They’re gone,” a voice said from behind him. “Almost all of them are gone.”
Brannon jumped, his sword in his hand and half out of the scabbard before he recognized the man in the doorway. “Taran! What are you doing?”
The young priest was fully dressed and had a slim bladed stiletto dagger in each hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” He slipped the daggers into his sleeves and they disappeared. “I was running those tests you wanted on the blood samples and thought I heard something.”
“You were running the tests in the middle of the night?”
Taran shrugged. “Fewer distractions.”
Brannon let the sword slide back into place. “I suppose that’s true. What did you hear?”
“I don’t know. I thought maybe someone moving around but I didn’t see anyone. Then I noticed Ula’s spirit bags were missing so I went investigating. I think someone’s taken them.”
Brannon raised an eyebrow. “You don’t behave like a normal priest.”
“You don’t need a normal priest.” Taran spread his hands wide and innocent.
Brannon snorted. “Bring those daggers and help me search.”
They crept along the dark corridor, senses straining for any sign of movement. The silence was eerie and broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards. Three more rooms on this level of the inn were unoccupied. One by one, they searched them. None of them had any spirit pouches. Brannon had to agree with Taran’s assessment. Someone had deliberately removed them. But why?
“Is it true about Draeson?” Taran asked, his voice low.
The shadows seemed to darken as Brannon pulled the door of the last room closed behind them, despite the candle he had found and lit to guide them. “Yeah. He needs to feed his dragon tattoo with blood.”
“They’re saying he used the boy, Tommy, to do it. And his mother let him.”
Brannon turned around, his eyes seeking out the priest’s. “People do crazy things when they’re scared. I’ve seen worse.”
“Worse than doing that to a child?” The priest fell silent and glanced away. “Yeah, I suppose I have too. Doesn’t make it right.”
Brannon watched as the younger man moved away. There was nothing to say.
The carpet here, by the stairs, was more worn than the rest of the hallway and a darker patch of shadow showed where a rug had been laid over it. Brannon looked back the way they’d come. The rest of the rooms were locked, their occupants presumably asleep inside. He’d prefer to search the rest of the building before waking anyone else. Other than the missing pouches, there still wasn’t any real reason to be concerned, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of disquiet.
The stairwell was like an open maw and they descended down into the gullet, the candlelight barely touching the sides. In the main tavern room, the embers of the fire burned low and red. The tables with their chairs upturned upon them, looked like large, spiny beetles, hibernating in a den.
A cool brush of air trailed over Brannon’s bare chest, raising the hairs on his arms. He edged forward, holding the candle high in his left hand, his right hovering near his sword. The door was open.
“Is anyone there?” he called.
There was no answer.
“Brannon.” Brother Taran pointed to a patch of shadow on the floor beside the bar.
As he moved closer, the shadow seemed to spread, oozing outward. The light gleamed on it, and he realized it was liquid. Blood.
Brannon raised a finger to his lips, and motioned Taran to stay back. He slowly pulled the sword from its scabbard. The metal hiss sounded loud as a rockslide.
He could feel the cool night air being pulled into his lungs, tingling the inside of his throat. His heart beat faster as he followed the expanding river of blood along the side of the bar to the end.
A figure slumped against the wall, his legs sticking out like an abandoned doll. Brannon knelt and lifted the figure’s head. A small gush of blood flowed from the slash in his neck, then dwindled to a trickle. Most of it was already on the floor. He was dead.
“Who is it?” Taran whispered.
“The captain of the guard.” Brannon stood and moved across to the door. The lock was broken. “I guess he was trying to do his job and someone got past him.”
“Yeah,” said Taran. “But were they trying to get in or trying to get out?”
Chapter Thirty-four
Latricia lay with her eyes open, listening to the sound of her son’s slow breathing as he slept in the bed across the room. She found herself timing her own breaths, each rise and fall of her chest, to synchronize with his. Even as she noticed it, she couldn’t make it stop.
Her mind circled endlessly around a single fear. Somehow, despite all her maneuvering, she could lose him. Just like she had lost Keldan, she could lose Tommy. Whether it was to the crazed killer that had taken his father, or whether it was to Duke Roydan’s plan to take over the role of parent to his remaining heir, Latricia knew that her place in Tommy’s life, and at Sandilar Manor, was something on which she had only the most tenuous of grips.
The bed felt hard and cold. She was still not used to sleeping a whole night alone. Even when he spent time with mistresses, Keldan would almost always return to their bed at some point during the night. Part of her still wanted to believe that he would appear. That he would regale her with his latest plot for outwitting his father and securing their little family trio in wealth and power.
“Ahpra’s Tears, Keldan,” she murmured to the shadows. “I’m no good at this without you. I need your help.”
Only the sounds of the night responded. The occasional creak of floorboards, the slow, rhythmic tick of the clock, the gentle brush of breath. The oil lamp on the table was turned down to its lowest burn, barely an ember on the wick.
Latricia lifted herself up on her elbows and looked across at her boy. He’d been so brave today. He always was brave. More than she’d like at times. But today she had asked a lot of him and he had done it. When Sir Brannon and Mayor Shillia had burst in, she had been worried she’d gone too far, asked too much of him, but now she could see the peace on his face as he slept and knew that she had done the right thing. Whatever the cost, the deal she had made with the magus was worth it.
She let her head fall back to the pillow. Exposing the deal to the others had never been part of her plan. She knew they would judge her. That they wouldn’t understand how a mother could offer up her son’s blood. But then, they weren’t in her position, were they? They hadn’t lost a husband. Hadn’t been attacked on the road in her own province—the province she had been set to govern. They didn’t live in terror of losing the one remaining family member they had left. No, they might not understand her move, but neither did they know the game.
Ever since she’d read in Keldan’s journal about Draeson’s arrangement with the royal family, she’d known she had an ace to play. The mage needed royal blood for his dragon-creature and Tommy needed protection. It was perfect. She knew the mage would not hurt her son—after all, her husband had donated the blood almost his whole life and she’d never even known about it, let alone seen any ill effects.
For a moment, she felt a flash of heat in her stomach at what he had kept from her all those years, but she pushed it down. That was Keldan. He had his secrets. Secrets, schemes, and women. Now, they were her secrets, her schemes. She knew he would say she’d blundered by letting this one be found out, but he’d admit the deal itself was masterful. Roydan himself would not stand against the magus head to head, and she and her son were under Draeson’s protection. They would be safe. Surely there was nothing more she could do to keep them safe?
She rolled over, her eyes searching in the dark for the door. Was it locked?
She closed her eyes. Of course it was locked. She’d already checked it twice. The attack on the road had made her paran
oid. She concentrated on her breathing again, slow and steady, mimicking restful sleep as though to trick the tension out of her muscles. The ticking clock sounded like a drum to her ears. She fancied that it was the Hooded One, tapping his foot.
A low scraping sound intruded into the room. Latricia’s eyes opened. She waited. The clock ticked on. At last, she heard it again: a slow scrape of metal from the direction of the door, almost like a key turning in the lock.
She pushed back the covers and slipped her feet into the slippers beside the bed. Her fingers groped for the room key on the bedside table, its cold hard iron a comfort as she crept toward the door.
The sound came again. This time the scrape ended with a click. Cold iron fingers clenched around her chest as she watched the door handle slowly turn.
The door opened and a dark-haired, slim figure stepped into the room. The door clicked closed behind him.
Latricia backed up, feeling behind her for the lamp. Her hand closed around it and she lunged forward, swinging it like a weapon at the intruder’s head.
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, quick as a wolf bite.
“Lady Latricia,” the silky voice purred. “Is that any way to greet a guest?”
She dropped the room key and tried to pry his fingers from her arm but he held her firm. Light expanded from the lamp, like milk poured into black tea, exposing his face.
“Fressin! What are you doing?”
The steward pushed her arm up higher and stepped forward, forcing her back against the edge of the table. For such a slim man, he was remarkably strong. “That, my lady, is the question I have for you. What are you doing nosing around things that have nothing to do with you? And bringing the Nilarian Ambassador with you? Where’s your loyalty, Latricia? Do you really think Duke Roydan wants that sort of influence around his heir?”
